


Fools Rush In

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe – in which it is frankly amazing Seb and Jim have survived this long, Craaaack, F/M, Jim is low key abusing Xanax to preserve his sanity, Molly Hooper is a perfect human being, Seb is definitely not Eliot Spencer in this one, Sebastian Moran is a kleptomaniac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: One of them is a bad influence. One of them doesn't know what they're getting into.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 20
Kudos: 203





	Fools Rush In

To introduce himself to Molly Hooper, Jim spends four weeks plotting a meet cute to put the most saccharine of rom-coms to shame. He turns every shrewd neuron to calculating the perfect set up, accounting for even the smallest probabilities of error.

The day he attempts to enact his plan, Molly Hooper sweeps into the cafeteria in a blood spattered set of scrubs, twenty minutes late, and from the door on the complete opposite side from the one he expected her to use. Jim misses his chance to intercept her by a mile _and_ spills coffee on his trousers.

"Oh! Are you okay?" Molly asks, grabbing a wad of napkins and passing them to him.

"Yes," Jim bites out, trying to figure out why his face feels hot when it's his pants that have been doused in coffee. "Fine. I'm fine. The coffee's just sort of lukewarm, so I guess I lucked out. My bits did, I mean-"

And even though his mouth's gone and run away from him for some reason (why on Earth did he mention his bits? even Jim-from-IT is not meant to be such a gormless tit), he's still _appalled_ when Molly interrupts him.

Her face twists into disgust. "Ugh, is it the sludge again?" she says, not waiting for an answer. She breezes past Jim without so much as a glance back, and yells at the open doorway into the cafeteria kitchen. " _Mario_!"

A man in a hairnet pops out, sees Molly, and balks. They proceed to have a sprightly argument that ends with Mario sullenly brewing a fresh batch of coffee while mousy little Molly Hooper supervises, her dainty toe tapping an irritated staccato in time to the percolation coming from the machine.

Jim watches the whole thing from the ruins of his perfect plan as Molly sweeps out of the cafeteria with her freshly brewed, hot, non-sludge coffee. She doesn't spare him so much as a glance as she goes.

…

Word gets around. Moriarty has been uncommonly quiet, which can only mean that he's plotting something _really_ big. Several large crime families, and a few small countries, batten down their hatches and get right with their gods, just in case.

…

Sebastian Moran finds Jim lying face down in the server room.

"Hey, boss," he says cautiously, prodding him with a toe. "Takin' a nap?"

Jim tilts his head to the side just enough to glare up at Sebastian with one eye. "You are a fucking idiot, Moran."

"Oh, are you hurt or something? Hey, we're in a hospital, so that's lucky, innit?"

"Fuck off and leave me to die," Jim moans, flinging himself into a pretzel twist of despair. "I have ruined things with Molly Hooper."

"Well, that's easy to fix," Sebastian says stoically while squinting at the nearest server rack. "Just grovel." He reaches to touch an aesthetically looped cable, jiggling it absently.

Jim slaps at Sebastian's ankle, growling, "Don't touch that! I spent fecking ages cleaning things up in here. The moron who actually works in this hellhole should be shot for gross incompetence. And for being just _gross_. You would not believe what I unearthed from behind the server rack."

Sebastian perks up. "I can do that! He's still tied up in our warehouse, on his 'holiday'. It'll be easy peasy!"

The noise Jim makes isn't quite disagreement, but its not permission either. Making a face, Sebastian drops into the only chair in the server room, swinging the backpack off his shoulder and setting it on the floor with a thump and a loud, plastic rattle.

Curiosity pulls Jim from his aggrandized dismay and he sits up, dragging the backpack closer and zipping it open. "Are you _stealing drugs_?" he shouts through gritted teeth, brandishing one of the multitude of pill bottles stuffed into the bag. "From _my_ hospital!?"

"Yeah, of course," Sebastian says, shrugging. "We are criminals." His attention turns to the computer screen, which is open to the messages on Molly Hooper's latest blog entry Whistling lowly, he adds, "Ooooh, you really are gonna hafta grovel. No bird wants to date a bloke who is weird about her nose."

The sound that comes out of Jim's mouth is not a wail, and it definitely doesn't sound like a cat who is about to be sick. Jim Moriarty, the world's first and only consulting criminal, is far too dignified to make any such noise.

"I mean, what were you thinking?" Sebastian takes a peek at the boss, who looks very much like he's about to be sick on Sebastian's shoes. He moves he feet out of the way, just in case.

"It just came out!" Jim says, flinging his hands up.

"Yeah, but like, you typed it. Don't you read what you've wrote before you send it?"

Instead of answering, Jim topples face first into the bag of pilfered drugs.

"Hey, it'll be okay," Sebastian says, leaning down to pat Jim on the shoulder, rather like an awkward uncle who got stuck babysitting a very unhappy toddler. "There's some Xanax in the bag. Take one right now, and it'll probably've kicked in by the time you get down to the canteen."

Jim makes another one of those sounds. It's only slightly muffled by the pill bottles.

"Whoa, you can't back out," Sebastian says, accurately translating Jim's squawking into words. "Molly Hooper is way too scary with a scalpel to stand her up. Have you _seen_ her do an autopsy?"

Rolling over, Jim lands with a small thump. "Scary _hot_ ," he sighs dreamily.

Sebastian side-eyes him. "Um, maybe take two Xanax," he says. "You'll be fine after two Xanax," he says.

He's not at all convinced that's true.

…

"I am going to _murder_ the oncology department," Jim hisses into his cider, determined to make Molly Hooper regret asking about his day as much as he had regretted living it.

She pats his arm absently while chugging her half her Guinness in one go. Setting down the pint, Molly licks the foam off her lip and beams at him. "Surely it wasn't that bad?"

The fluttering in his tummy has nothing to do with that smile, Jim tells himself sternly. _Correlation is not causation_. Probably he just has heartburn from the mystery meat lunch _a la_ Mario. But just in case, he steadfastly turns away from her, only to balk.

Sebastian Moran is sitting at the bar, pouring an entire bowl of beer nuts into his pocket. The bowl itself gets stuffed under his coat.

"Jim?" Molly asks, gently squeezing his arm. "Why don't you tell me about it? It'll make you feel better."

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. If Moran gets booted from another pub, that's his problem. He likes this place, Molly's local; there's no way he's going to interfere on Sebastian's behalf.

Not after last time.

"I spent the morning scrubbing viruses from the department computers," Jim recites hollowly, reliving the horror. Soooo many 'hot Russian girls' pop ups. "You will not believe which ones are watching porn at work."

"Oh." Molly chuckles around another swallow of her beer, then sets down her glass and calmly rattles off an entirely accurate list of oncological perverts. "I work with them a lot," she says with a shrug when Jim turns to gape at her. "It's not hard to tell."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Seb booking it out the door, the bartender hot on his heels.

"Reeeeally?" Jim says, leaning on his elbows. "Tell me more."

Molly sniffs. "Maybe I can't remember how to turn on spell check, Jim, but that doesn't make me dumb."

Outside, some helpful bystander has smashed Sebastian's face into the pub window, assisting the bartender in making a citizen's arrest. Jim props his chin in his palm and grins at Molly. "Oh not at all, dearest. I think you're _brilliant_."

…

Glee is the worst. A horror show of epic proportions.

Molly very cheerfully tells him that she's seen the show so many times she's got it off by rote. Then she unzips his trousers, twists her hair out of the way, and hums along to the musical number playing on the screen as she goes down on him.

Glee is brilliant. The best thing to happen to television.

…

Molly Hooper is _scary hot_ when she's mad.

This is a thing Jim has known since their first, ill-fated meeting. But it's one thing to know, quite another to experience it firsthand. Molly storms right up to him, jabs her finger into his chest, and hisses, "You are not gay."

She is correct. The thing Jim Moriarty is feeling in this moment is the complete opposite of homosexual inclination.

"Molls…"

"Oh god." She steps back, arms drawn to her chest, cheeks pinking and eyes glinting dangerously wet. " _Are_ you gay? I thought… I thought you liked-"

She gestures vaguely at her crotch. For some reason, his face feels hot, but surely he's not _blushing_. Jim Moriarty doesn't do anything so plebeian.

"It's delicious," he blurts out. Then he has to resist the urge to turn and slam his face into the nearest flat surface five or six times. Jim-from-IT is a gobby _twat_ , a total plonker, an _utter fucking cunt what is wrong with him_.

Mollified, Molly sniffs, letting her shoulders down. "Oh. Okay. So why on Earth did you leave Sherlock your number, then?"

Jim shifts on his feet. Molly's not glaring at him anymore, so she's left the scary end of the spectrum, but the schoolmarm expression she's pinned him with isn't any less hot. "Dunno," he mumbles. "I thought it'd be funny, I guess."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Jim. You're such a dolt," she says, rolling her eyes. Kissing him on the cheek, she takes his hand. "Come on. Let's knock off early. Go have a snack." Molly's brown eyes twinkle merrily at him, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

All the blood leaves his face and relocates elsewhere. It must have also all left his brain, because he merely trots along obediently as Molly leads them out of the hospital and into a cab bound for her flat.

…

Sherlock Holmes has arranged a little midnight rendezvous, an assignation in the very place that first brought them together. He's even got a little gift on offer as an extra enticement.

It's almost _romantic_.

Jim squints at the notification on his phone showing Sherlock's update to his blog. If he's going to get to the pool in time, he needs to leave now.

Molly Hooper has arranged a different sort of tryst. An all night one taking place in her bed. She presses against him, snuggling close, warm and soft and very naked.

"'S that work?" she asks. Her fingers draw abstract shapes on his abdomen. "Do you have to go?"

Jim looks at Molly, her brown eyes solemn but disappointed. He is very warm, tucked under her floral duvet. And Molly is very soft.

And they are very, very naked.

Jim puts his phone on the side table. "No."

An hour later, Sebastian sends a text: 'Hello? What am I meant to be doing with this Watson bloke anyway?'

Jim is far too busy to answer.

…

Irene Adler stops talking, mid-sentence. "What the fuck is _that_?"

Jim looks up lazily from the photos she's brought him, to the occupied space on the wall of his office. "It's a painting," he says. "One of those things where you drink an entire bottle of wine while you try to copy a masterpiece. Molly and I did it last weekend."

"What masterpiece is this then?" Irene says. "That famous classic: 'DaVinci's vomit'?"

"It's not about skill," Jim sniffs. "It's about making memories."

Irene looks at the painting. Then at Jim. Then the painting again. "Were you even sober enough to remember any of this?"

Jim Moriarty does not dignify that with an answer. He tosses the folder to his desk, and says instead, "That is too boring for words."

"It's literally a royal scandal."

Jim leans back in his chair, makes a face and shrugs carelessly. "I'm far too busy, in any case. Molly and I are going to Brighton for the holiday." He grins, suddenly and wickedly, leaning forward. Irene watches him like he's a panther coiling up for a strike, which pleases him immensely. "Why don't you be a good girl and keep Sherlock Holmes occupied while we're away. Wouldn't want him wondering where his pathologist has got off to, do we?"

To her credit, Irene straightens her shoulders and blinks at him eloquently. "Sorry," she says, all false politeness. "You want me to be a _what_ now?"

"Oh, yes. Whatever." Jim waves a hand. "Be a _bad_ girl. But keep Sherlock occupied. Daddy has plans to defile an entire holiday cottage with his girlfriend, and we don't want any interruptions."

…

Brighton is the third worst place on the planet. The dinky little cottage Molly has rented for them does nothing to improve the utter disgust Jim has for the all around tourist trap that is Brighton Pier in mid-summer. Having sex on the cottage's kitchen counter does cheer him up a bit though.

Despite that, Jim wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

"What have you done to me, woman!" he shouts, shaking Molly awake. "I am on holiday in bloody _Brighton_. I am an IT professional. _I can't be an IT professional!_ "

"You've always been an IT professional, Jim," Molly says sleepily, trying to burrow into her pillow. Jim snatches it away, throwing it across the room. "You're very good at being an IT professional," she continues with a yawn. "But if you really want a career change, I'll support you while you go back to school."

Jim gawps at her like a beached fish.

Molly throws a leg over his and reaches up to pull him back down to the bed. "It's time we talked about moving in together anyway," she says, unperturbed by his reaction. She snuggles her head on his shoulder in lieu of fetching back her pillow. "You practically live at mine as it is."

Jim blinks at the ceiling, trying to understand how the conversation has wandered so far from his original objective. "Okay," his mouth says without bothering to wait for permission from his very giant brain. "My lease is up at the end of the month."

"Mm, good." Molly tucks her face into his neck. "Glad that's settled."

Jim Moriarty clenches his teeth. It is time, he decides, for little Molly Hooper to hear some hard truths. "I am a criminal mastermind, Molls," he says very slowly, as if somehow that can keep him on track this time. "Not an IT professional."

"Oh, honestly." Molly huffs, not moving an iota from where she's wrapped her body around his. "Next thing you'll be telling me that Sherlock Holmes is your nemesis."

Jim turns puce. He thinks about, like, getting to his feet to yell at her properly… but he's far too comfy to bother. "Well who else should it be?" he says acidly. "Miss bloody fucking Marple?"

Molly sighs and sits up, much to Jim's dismay. She scrubs her hands through her hair, pushing it away from her face. "Jim, are you saying these things because you think you'll be more interesting if you're more like Sherlock? Because I like you just as you are. An IT professional."

Jim gawps at her like a beached fish. It's distressing how quickly this has turned into an unbecoming habit.

He only manages to recover when Molly kisses him. Sort of recover. "You _like_ Jim-from-IT?" he gasps (still like a beached fish, _for fucks sake_ ) while she's rearranging her limbs around him once more.

"Yes, of course, you ninny," Molly says with another kiss to his cheek. "You're the only one I'd endure Brighton Pier with. Now go to sleep."

…

The rumor mill is frothing. Moriarty hasn't been heard from in months. Some insist he's dead; most don't dare to make that assumption. Sherlock Holmes, tired of waiting for his nemesis to finally show his face, goes on a quest to find him.

He returns to London a year later with four knighthoods from various countries across Europe and an international reputation as a world-class cock, but no trace of Moriarty.

…

Jim Moriarty cannot take one second more of this.

The moment Sherlock's eyes meet his, he snaps. "The man was stabbed _before_ he got in the shower. Which should be obvious, even to you. A thin knife through the guard's belt, and pressure would keep the wound closed until he took it off. _And_ ," he says, fingers clamped on the edge of the table while he stares down a dumbfounded Sherlock Holmes like an angry housecat, "your so called 'mayfly man' is the attempted murderer. He's _also_ fucking wedding photographer, Holmes, are you goddamned blind? He's here to kill the Major, now that the groom has carelessly lured him out into public with all this wedding nonsense."

Sherlock blinks at Jim, twice. "You are _wasted_ in IT," he says.

Any response Jim might have had is overridden when the photographer makes a mad dash to escape. Lestrade and Sherlock and John go bounding after him.

Jim sits back in his chair with a gusty sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson tuts from Molly's other side, craned around to watch the kerfluffle in the atrium. She turns back and asks Jim, "How ever did you figure that out?"

"I'm a genius," Jim spits. But the seething under his skin bubbles away like smoke when Molly latches onto his arm with a happy squeak.

"Isn't he wonderful, Mrs Hudson?" Molly kisses him on the cheek and says, "See, Jim, I told you the wedding wouldn't be so bad."

"This is the worst day of my life," Jim tells her, deathly serious. "We are not doing one single second of this nonsense when we get married."

…

Eight months later, Jim Moriarty is proven very wrong as he stands at the alter while a beaming Molly Hooper walks herself up the aisle. In the plus column, he does feel surprisingly calm about this entire fiasco.

"Did you slip a Xanax in my coffee, Moran?" Jim mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Sebastian isn't even a little bit repentant. "Yep."

"...thank you."


End file.
